The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,68

honest. It makes life so much easier. Pretense is such a burden. The day I accepted that beneath my pristine, polished surface I was a broken hot mess was the day my life became manageable.” She leaned forward. “Your father saw through my veneer like it was glass. He showed me that what was behind it was a lot more interesting.”

“Did he spend every Christmas Eve with you?”

“For the last fifteen years. After he closed up his shop, he’d spend a little time with Wendy, then he’d come on up.”

“Wendy told me that. At least, about her. I’m surprised you knew.”

“Your father was terribly honest. I don’t think I ever caught him in a lie.” She suddenly smiled. “Unless it was a kind lie. So, after his little visit with Wendy, he’d come here and I’d make him a very special dinner. I’m quite the cook, you know, though not as good as your father made me out to be. The way he spoke, you’d think I was a Michelin-rated chef.

“We’d have his personal favorite, Beef Wellington with Parma ham and puff pastry, candied carrots, Potatoes Dauphinoise, asparagus with hollandaise sauce. He would bring the wine and cheesecake. The cheesecake he ordered from New York. I don’t remember the name, but it was Zagat-rated number one.”

“S&S,” I said.

“Yes, that’s it. Your father had remarkable taste in books and food and wine.”

“And people,” I said.

She smiled. “In everything. Probably why we got along so well.” She sighed. “I miss him.”

“I miss him too,” I said. It was the first time I’d said that out loud since I left Utah. I think Grace understood that, and she let my confession fall into silence.

“We would dine for hours. Then, after we ate, we’d go to Midnight Mass together.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Would you like to go with me to mass tonight?”

“I’ve never been.” I looked down at my clothes. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

“You look fine. I always overdress. It’s just me.”

“I’d like to,” I said.

She smiled. “I thought I would be going alone this year for the first time. What a pleasant turn of events.”

* * *

The dinner was as exquisite as my father had once voiced. So was my host. I never sensed that I was intruding on Grace’s evening; rather, she treated me as a long-awaited guest—one she had been looking forward to entertaining.

A little after eleven we took her car, a candy-apple-red Cadillac, and drove to mass at the Cathedral of the Madeleine on South Temple Street. It was only a few miles from her home.

We were early for the service and in no great hurry. I was handed a program by a robed child near the entrance, and Grace and I took a seat near the center of the cathedral.

I had never been religious-minded, but the smell of incense, the glowing candles, and the pageantry filled me with peace. As I looked over the program Grace said, “Don’t worry about a thing. There’s a lot of singing and kneeling. Just follow my lead. No one’s watching to see if you do it right.” She smiled. “Or wrong.”

“Will there be some kind of communion?”

“Yes. But you’re not Catholic, so you don’t need to participate.”

“Are you Catholic?”

“Twice a year,” she said with a wry smile.

The choir-led music was beautiful and familiar, and I found myself recklessly joining in it all. There was a gospel reading, followed by the homily. Fittingly, the priest spoke of God’s great love as an analogy for a father’s love. The service ended with a presentation by bell ringers playing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

We filed out of the cathedral past a short receiving line, and then we walked back to the car. As we drove back to Grace’s home, she said, “Thank you for coming with me, Noel. What a beautiful evening this has turned out to be.”

“It’s been nice,” I said. “Not at all what I planned on.”

“Call me a romantic, but I really believe your father sent me a replacement. He must be so pleased.”

When we got back, there was a different security guard in the booth. “Merry Christmas, Michael,” Grace said, stopping her car.

“Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kingsbury,” he returned.

“I have something for you.” She reached into her purse and handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Merry Christmas. Don’t stay up too late.”

He laughed. “Too late for that. Thank you, Mrs. Kingsbury.”

As we pulled into her garage, she said, “I know it’s late, but please